Drone: Chapter Two

    I want to tell you so many things, but everything I tell is expelled only in tiny pieces.  I can never express to you the true feeling or emotions that came with the events that unfolded that winter.  There was a girl who I’d had an affair with the spring before, but she had left the city and was now involved with someone else.  I panned on seeing her if she returned for Christmas, but she never came home. 
~
    I was at some sort of post-Thanksgiving pre-Christmas party with Matt Hilderbrand.  The whole thing was quite contrived, despite the obvious effort the hostess had put into it.  I was impressed, but also very annoyed.  There wasn’t enough beer, and for some reason everyone at this party seemed to be drinking straight vodka.  Some sort of fascination with Absolute was evident, and if I do say so myself, in rather poor taste.  The only good thing I could see on the surface was the excellent selection of eighties music, and the brunette across the room.
    “We need cocaine,” Hilderbrand was holding a corona in his hand and not looking at all drunk enough. 
    “Christ, fuck that.  You’re right though,” I said, taking a sip of mine.
    “This party sucks.  The music sucks.”
    “The music is alright, but the booze situation is atrocious.”  I caught another glimpse of the brunette who shot a glance at me as she walked into the kitchen.
    “Yes.” Matt agreed with emphasis. 
    “Fucking Absolute,” I said, trying to tilt my head, and follow the path of the girl.  “I think this girl is looking at me.”
    “Who?”
    “I don’t know.  I’ve never seen her before.”
    “I don’t know anybody here.  I need a fucking cigarette.  Smoke?”
    “Fuck it.  Lets go.”
    The air was stiff and calm.  There was an aura of certainty in my thoughts as the slow burning paper disintegrated into ash, vapor, and smoke, as it always did.  Matt was saying something about the advertising industry, and I was agreeing with him.  His words made sense to me, but for some reason I was asking myself whether or not they made sense to him. 
    The city was lit up, but obscured because we were in a low-rise apartment building near campus.  This frustrated me.  Matt had stopped talking, and I noticed that the brunette had walked onto the balcony.
    I lifted the cigarette to my lips, staring at her.  I took a drag.  Then turning to Matt, my voice slightly deeper because of the smoke, I said, “She’s looking at me.”
    “Well you are looking at her.”
    “Yeah but...”
    “Just go fucking talk to her.  Christ, she obviously wants to jump your bone.”
    “Not an easy task,” I said sarcastically.
    “Fuck off,” Matt said now pissed because of the lack of blow and the lack of female interest, but most because of the blow.  I approached her casually.  At first I had thought that her hair was brown, but now I began to see that it was more black in this light.  It was not as if it had been dyed black, but as if it was natural despite her very light complexion.  She was wearing a strapless  cocktail dress.  It was the usual type it was cut short showing off her excellently toned legs that were accentuated by what appeared to be no less than four inch stiletto heels. 
    “Excuse me,” I said, provoking her attention.  “I noticed you looking at me.”
    “Oh you think I was looking at you,” she shot back. 
    That cut me short, but wasn’t unexpected from the type of girl that usually frequent parties like this.  “Well I saw you looking at me...” I said as she took a sip of something that looked like Champagne from what looked like a Champagne glass. 
    “I was just looking at you because you were staring at me.”  She cut me off letting the glass fall to her side. 
    “Well maybe I was staring, but I was just trying to figure out who you are.  I’ve never seen you anywhere before, and you are definitely someone I wouldn’t miss.”
    “Smooth talker are you?  I just transferred here.”  She said, finally cracking a sly grin.
    Now I was thinking, and as I looked back into the hapless party I knew what an utter waste of time this all was.  “Do you want to get out of here?”
    “Yes.”
    Then we were walking through the crowd.  We were stealing a bottle of Champagne from the kitchen.  We were stumbling down the hall.  We were climbing a staircase.  We were on the roof.  I poured another drink into her glass.  I drank from the bottle as I stood on the edge, and finally escaped the eyesores below.  Now I could see.  The city illuminated as it always was in the distance.  The only absolute.  The moon struck me that night.  Big and bold it made the tar surface we stood on now appear gray.  When I looked at her juxtaposed against it all everything appeared in black and white.  There were no words.  There were no names.  No mediocrities.  Only this.
    I grabbed her then.  “Do think there is any hope for this?” I asked her.
    “No.”  She said.
    We kissed.  Our arms and hands struggling with buttons and cloth and lace.   Then love came in the only form I knew it to take.  Our bodies moving slowly about each other.  She grasped me, and my head close to hers we moved together in step.  Friction creating some warmth on that bleak night.  Her hands moved like waves over me.  They washed away my thoughts, and when the tide came in I dissolved into the sand and disappeared into the night.
    We laid there beneath it all.  The smoke from my cigarette rising into the blank air above us, and there was nothing.  I was free. 
    “Why are you here?” She asked me later.
    “What do you mean?” She took my cigarette and took a drag before handing it back to me.
    “You don’t seem like the type to go to a party like that.”
    “Yes I do.”
    “Well maybe on appearances, but not...” She stopped.
    “Not what?”
    “You just seem different then the rest of them.”
    “Don’t get your hopes up.  I’m still a pretty big asshole.  I probably won’t call you.”
    “Who said I want you to?”  I looked at her.  She was smiling. 
    “I’m looking for something,” I paused.  She was still listening.  “I’m looking for something real.”
    “Like what?”  She asked genuinely.
    “I don’t know yet.”
    “Am I real?”
    “I hope so.” I said silently.

Melodrama

    I can still smell you.  There was a breath we shared on that last morning.  The last touch, last kiss, last look.  How could we have possibly known that our lives would be so irrevocably separated.  So destroyed by distance and time, and the moment.  It lasts with me now sometimes only in the night, only when my mind wanders, but it wanders often and I may never forget. 
    I can only remember small bits.  Lotion, smelling of synthetic flowers making your skin smooth as I run the tips of my fingers up.  And you smell like I want to hold you forever.  Your eyes looking into mine with all that wanting.  What I thought you wanted, now I only want to know what you are thinking.  You so desperate to see inside of me, and me so desperate to hide from you.  I want to give you what you wanted.  To give you everything.  To give you my heart and so much more. 
    Did you know that I love you? 

MLK: An Anarchist Perspective

    Martin Luther King Day was yesterday and as a white American you may be wondering the significance of such a day to me.  I, as I am sure many other whites do, may not immediately see the significance of a civil rights leader who fought for the rights of blacks in America.  I was about to overlook the day altogether when last night I heard an interesting piece on the Tavis Smiley show on NPR.  One of the guests was addressing the significance of President Obama in regard to King’s goals.  His commentary, however, took a turn when he said that Obama, or simply having a black President, was an aspect of King’s dream, but ultimately his dream has yet to be fulfilled. 
    I claim no authority on King’s messages, but from what I do know, he was not only concerned with the rights and liberties of blacks in America, but that of minorities and even people all across the world.  He favored nonviolence in all situations, and this was very evident in his acts of civil disobedience.  King’s goals supersede the needs of any one group, and identify the necessity all people have for freedom and justice. 
    In the United States today we have not only disregarded much of this message, but we may have actually gotten worse.  King was opposed to the Vietnam War and described this opposition in a speech called “Beyond Vietnam” in which he said that the U.S. Government is “the greatest purveyor of violence in the world today.”  He called the  U.S. occupation of Vietnam an attempt at American colonization which echos today in the our current war in Iraq and Afghanistan as we continue to occupy these nations despite the futility of the cause. 
    Again we are reminded that King’s message was not just for one minority, but for all people, because it is necessary for all to people to understand that the fundamentals of peace must start with a policy of nonviolence in all situations with no aggressor. 
    Unfortunately, the United States has become the aggressor in the world today.  Ironically it was this aggression that led to the terrorist attacks of 9/11, something the intelligence community calls Blowback.  Rather than adjusting foreign policies in the world, and in the Middle East, the United States proceeded to step up its presence in the region, invaded two nation-states who governments and civilians had nothing to do with any acts of aggression toward the U.S.
    Rhetoric in the U.S. today causes anger, forms hate, and pushes nationalism.  However, this anger is often projected toward those the government wants us to hate, and not who is actually to blame, especially if the blame is to fall on the government itself. 
    Indeed you can tout about our civil rights and freedoms to the world, and promote democracy all you want, but the fact is that this county is no more free then it was.  Blacks enjoy rights they were not afforded in King’s time, but as they finally reached the level of “freemen” the nation as a whole began to take a nose dive with civil liberties for all.  The War on Communism, The War on Drugs, The War on Terrorism, all rhetorical ploys to scare the public into a certain way of thinking.  Ploys not to fight for our freedoms, but to find ways to restrict them.

Drone: Chapter One

The Profound Examination of Human Evolutionary History

You know that feeling you get, in the morning, after you’ve had a one night stand?  When the girl you fucked is still lying next to you, and you’re wondering whether or not she had a good time.  You’re wondering if she did this because she actually liked you or if she was just drunk and couldn’t tell the difference.  You’re hoping its the first one.  You’re hoping that you’re worth enough for her to give a damn, even though you couldn’t give a damn when you were getting in her pants eight hours ago.  Well now the sun is casting those blue reflections on the block wall, and you’re awake and soon she will be too, and you’re hoping that when she does she will look at you and smile.  But you know that is just wishful thinking, and, every foreseeable outcome points to the obvious answer you already have on the tip of your dry tongue.  You mean nothing.

~

Craig Crenshaw, Matt Hildebrand, Timothy Stuart, and I were sitting at a window booth at Jerry’s.  It was a decent table especially for this restaurant, but I had a hunch that our luck was based on the fact that Friday wasn’t one of Jerry’s prime nights.  

We had all pounded three or four shots each before making our way from the apartment near campus to this restaurant on Jackson Street.  We were all at least buzzed, and Matt was showing signs of mild intoxication.  

I was trying to coax the waitress over to our table to get another Don Q and to try and get her number, but she seemed to be ignoring me, although I couldn’t really tell.  Craig had begun asking us what we thought of this girl he met at a club last week.  I had seen her, and although I thought she was hot, I said, “I don’t know.  I never really got a good look at her so I couldn’t say.”  This may have all seemed very calculated, but honestly I just didn’t want to get involved.  Craig always asked everyone’s opinion on everything, and whether or not our opinions actually factored into any decision he made was yet to be determined, so again I distanced myself from such matters of friends.

Matt seemed more drunk than the rest, but he was also dressed better than the rest of us so that made up for it.  He was wearing a blazer that probably cost more than everything I was wearing.  He was agreeing with Craig, who was obviously looking for approval.  He was saying, “If you’re into her then why not?”  

Craig was nodding his head.  He seemed to be saying, “Yes.  Yes.”  But he wasn’t making any noise.  Then looking at his watch in one motion he too was trying to call the waitress.  “Where the hell is this girl?  It’s been, like, ten minutes.  Christ, I came here to drink.  Not chew...fucking...ice.”

I looked at Timothy.  He was being his usual quiet self, but tonight he seemed to have something on his mind.  I very much liked everyone at the table, but Timothy was different.  He was the type of kid who had the potential to be legendary.  He raised his glass to his lips.  Sipped.  Replaced the glass.  I knew that Craig didn’t really care about everyone else’s thoughts on this girl anyway.  He really just wanted to hear what Timothy had to say about it.  

“What do you think Timothy?”  I asked, also curious.  

Timothy was wearing pleated trousers and a cardigan sweater that was complimented by a Ralph Lauren button down.  He was wearing his Wayfarers inside, (we all were) but he lowered them, and finally removed them when he started talking.  “I already fucked her.”

“What?” Craig asked.

“I said, I already fucked her.”

“I heard what you said, but now I’m asking you what you mean?”  Craig said sharply, now lowering his sunglasses.

“I think he is trying to tell you that he porked your girl, Crenshaw,”  I chimed in sarcastically. 

“No shit?” Matt said slowly.

“Goddammit, Tim.  You fucking bastard.  When?”

“It doesn’t matter.  She was terrible.  Not worth your time, believe me.”

“Fuckin’ hell.”  Craig pulled out a cigarette. “I could have decided that,” he started to light it when the waitress finally came over.  “Oh, nice of you to join us.”

“You can’t smoke in here.”  The waitress said as he lit it anyway.  

“We’re leaving.”  Craig stood up and blew smoke in the waitress’s direction.  Matt and Tim rose to leave, and I pulled out a hundred and gave it to the waitress telling her to keep the change, and then apologizing, and then getting her number.  

~

There was a briskness in the air on the streets.  Between the skyscrapers, and condos, and restaurants and cafes that were trying to be hip, and people who were doing the same.  The problem was, this city had no real art scene.  Everyone here was either an amateur, or a low paid wannabe.  There were galleries, and festivals, and shows, but no one outside this realm really paid any notice.  Essentially these people were just imitation creatives.  There was nothing real here.  It was all constructed, all imported, all disaster.  

We were now all feeling the effects of the booze and a cloud of condensed air and cigarette smoke wafted above the four of us as we traversed the street.  Crossing back towards campus Craig said loudly, “We need beer.”

“Lets get some beer then.” I said, turning toward a convenience store on the corner.  

“What we really need is some pot,” said Timothy.

“Yes.  Best idea of the night,” said Matt.  “I know a guy.”  Matt was pulling out his cell phone.  Timothy was trying to ask him who his guy was, Craig grabbed two twenty-four packs from the freezer, and we were all buying cigarettes.  

“What are we doing tonight,” I was asking as we got back to the apartment.  

“Let’s...let’s...let’s call some girls,” Craig said enthusiastically despite his intoxication. “I need some pussy.  Do you know anybody?  Who can we call?”

“No.  No chicks,” said Timothy.  

“Fuck that.  You’re getting laid, of course you don’t care.” Craig snapped back.  “Gimme a beer.”  We sat down on our crumbling leather couches.  Craig cracked a beer, Matt lit a blunt, Timothy sat down and started drinking a beer and  never stopped, and I lit a cigarette and watched the chaos.  

Timothy put his empty beer down, and grabbed another one.  He opened it, cutting the silence in the room, and spoke.  “Do you guys know why humans evolved from hunter gatherers?”  He looked at all of us.  Presently I seemed to be the only one really paying attention.  Craig was getting very drunk now and Matt was enthralled with the art of smoking his expertly crafted blunt.  

“Does it matter?” asked Matt.

“Well, I guess nothing really matters.”  Timothy retorted quickly, his tone more serious now.  I knew something was irritating Tim, but I didn’t have any idea what he was getting at.  

“Yeah, but listen.  The reason humans evolved from hunter gatherers...you know twigs and berries type shit...to farming...is all because of beer...Have you heard this?  Turns out that those motherfuckers loved gettin’ wasted.”  He took another big gulp from his beer. “They drank so much they had to start specializing just so they could grow enough rice to make malt liquor.”

“That’s fucking great,” Matt laughed out, obviously stoned.

“Who cares,” said Craig unabashedly.  “I want to talk about this girl.”

“What girl?” I asked, knowingly.

“It doesn’t matter,” Timothy retorted, “You realize that our entire existence as workers in this capitalist system is based on the fact that a couple of fuckers wanted to get drunk.”  He took another drink.  “Our entire society, government, religion, art, war, everything...it’s all because some guy was like–we need to integrate.”

“That’s really, like, deep.”  said Matt.  

“Well, I don’t have a job,”  I said.  

Our disinterest was clearly upsetting Timothy, and he was now becoming even more evangelical.  He took the blunt from Matt and stood up on the coffee table in front of all of us.  He took a massive hit, sucking in half of what was left in one huge gasp.  When he exhaled the room was full of pungent smoke.  He was sweating mildly, and his eyes became fiery, or bloodshot, or both.    

“It’s all just bullshit.  The beer isn’t the only thing either.  Take Craig for example.  You’re a fucking slut...you’re a fucking...a fucking whore...You’re a piece of shit peder-ass.”

“She was seventeen!”

“It doesn’t matter.  It doesn’t fucking matter.  That’s not the point anyway.  The point is that you’re a hypocrite.  Honestly, we all are.  I mean have you ever though about it?  I mean, why the hell do people, and by people I mean us too, have such low goddamn moral values?  Every night it’s the same goddamn bullshit man, and now we find out that our whole existence is based on fucking hops.  Its just so fucking incomprehensibly tragic, man.  Our whole existence is  based on a fucking lie, dude.”  He took another huge gulp of beer.  Now sweating quite profusely, and now visibly enflamed. His hair was combed over and slicked, but now fell into his eyes.  He slicked it back with his fingers, grabbed the roach with the tips of his thumb and pointer and took the last of it into his lungs.  

I had only taken one hit, but my world was closing in on me.  I could see everyone, but I had a strange feeling that I looked ridiculous.  My understanding of the situation was solely based on my complete trust that everything coming from Timothy’s mouth was true.  I also had a feeling that Matt and Craig were also in my situation, but I couldn’t tell if they were paying attention to Timothy.  Timothy seemed to be distracted by something, but I wanted to hear more of his sermon. 

“I totally agree, man,” I said.  

“No man.  Don’t agree with me.  That’s the whole problem.  Collectivism.  To much agreement.  There’s no innovation.  There are too many followers.” 

“You’re right.”

“Don’t agree with me, man!”

“Okay.” I said trying to show him that I understood.  He put one foot back on the table.  At that moment I knew he was completely, utterly, and totally insane.  The other two were on the verge of passing out, but he spoke to them like they were watching the birth of Christ. 

“We’ve been programmed man.  Don’t you get that?  Fucking school...it’s all just a way to make us conform...fucking history is written by the winners, man.”  He was becoming frantic.

“Yes! Yes! YES!” Matt was screaming.  

“We need to talk about the girl,” Craig mumbled.

“Fuck the girl! Society is an illusion man!”  screamed Timothy.

“You did.  You fucked her,” Craig realized.

“You’re right.” I said.

“Don’t agree with me goddammit.”  Then he suddenly forgot his words.  He grabbed another beer.  He sat down, and drank it.   I looked at Matt, who was now tipped over, unconcious.  Craig looked at me.

“You got a smoke dude?”

“Yeah.”  

He took the cigarette from my grip.  Lit it.  The apartment was quiet.  Smoke billowed.  A siren could be heard on the street below.  I got up and walked to the balcony.  The night was still cold.  The city had a look of artificiality now.  It looked like a picture of a city at night, not the real thing.  From inside I heard Timothy groan.  

“You fuck...don’t you get it?  Your life is meaningless.”

The Time Machine

My design for the classic novel's cover.

The Most Important Thing Ever Written Down: Cheating To Win

I have always admired professional con artists.  Of course many people have heard the stories of Frank Abagnale and David Hampton, or professional hoaxer Alan Abel, but I think the best con artist are the ones we don’t know about.   The more mysterious a person is, the more interesting they usually are.  Cons can be used for many things, but I am less concerned with many things and more concerned with one: getting laid.  

I have always fancied myself as a con man of sorts, but maybe I am just a good liar.  Or maybe, girls are just very gullible.  Any or all is possible, and it doesn’t really matter which.  The important thing is that at some point during high school I became fascinated with the art of lying.  I was very interested in writing, and creating short films, and of course lying is an integral part of both professions.  Creating characters is an essential step, and the best part is they can be anything you want.  

I often found myself thinking of grandiose ambitions or dangerous schemes I could attempt, but I never had the means to follow through with.  I could, however, always write about it. 

In high school I began to blur the line between my imagination and my reality.  I might start telling a true story, but I would often find myself exaggerating details or simply embellishing the entire thing. 

I was dating a girl during my senior year.  One night I had just dropped her off at her house, and she had gone inside when I realized that she had left her jacket in my car.  I called her to come back out and get it, and then I saw an opportunity.  I remembered that I had a Journey CD in the car, and so I quickly fast forwarded and pressed pause.  When I saw her coming out of the house I grabbed the jacket, hit play, and turned up the volume.  Her eyes glinted a reflection of the lights off the damp street.  It was cold.  She moved to take the jacket and I pulled her close to me.  Looking into her eyes I saw beauty.  I kissed her as Faithfully took off. It was the perfect scene.  

This was my first taste of deception.  I had created an atmosphere, a setting, that wasn’t real.  Of course, this girl was very smart (one reason I actually liked her), and she saw right through the gimmick.  But I loved the rush.  I loved the control.  I loved the power.

I began to script my life.  Plan scenes and carry them out.  When I reached college I found that meeting girls in clubs and bars was the perfect place to hone my skills.  If I was just trying to get laid then why be honest?  I could literally tell these girls whatever I wanted, and they wouldn’t know the difference.  That is exactly what I did.  I had many personas and countless professions.  

Most of the time I would say that I was a grad student.  Maybe a psychology major, or basically anything more interesting then political science.  One night I was a med student doing my residence at Tallahassee Memorial (finger banged her in the bathroom).  One night I had just passed the BAR exam and was considering putting off a position at a firm to travel(laid).  One night I was a lawyer for Raymond James Financial (make-out, blow-job).  Having an actual career instantly made me more appealing than ninety percent of the other guys at a party.  If I had a wing man then I could have him corroborate my story, but usually a little bit of information was all it would take to convince.  “Oh I work for Pierce and Pierce,” ever heard of it?”  Too easy.  

One night I went to one of those downtown clubs that try to look much more classy than they are.  It’s all very posh inside and out, but most of the people (especially the women) were college age, and trying very hard.  Tight, short dresses made me think of  smooth, soft, legs, skin, sex.  It was time.  We passed through the line at the front like we knew the fucking owner and strolled right in.  Confidence equals respect and respect gets you privileges.  

I was wearing Ralph Lauren pleated trousers and fitted shirt along with a Ralph Lauren skinny necktie.  Although it was about eleven thirty I was wearing my Ray Bans because I didn’t care.  

When we got inside we realized it was packed and the idea of pulling any good looking chicks from the crowd was intimidating,but I wasn’t too worried.  I had been in this situation before, and if there was anything I had learned it was to be patient, because anything can happen (and it often does).  Acknowledging this, I proceeded to relax and take up a position at the outside bar.  Looking good was assured, creating an aura of intrigue was necessary.  I lit a cigarette with a silver zippo and waited.  Sipping a drink as everyone else pounded them.  Phil was getting worried, and to be honest I was too.  An hour in, and there wasn’t much progress.  I was walking up some stairs with Phil when a girl I had seen earlier came down with a guy who looked as if he meant to take her home.  She made eye contact with me, and as I attempted to disregard her obviousness, her lips made the words, “help me.”  

It really wasn’t all that serious.  She just didn’t want to go home with this guy.  I took the initiative and grabbed her hand saying, “Hey, you can’t leave everyone is still inside!”  The guy she was with turned with her to look at me as I waved for Phil to cover me.  

“Oh yeah,” she said turning to the guy and kissing him on the cheek.  “I’m sorry, I can’t leave yet.”  Cock-blocked.

I took her to another area where there were less people and Phil followed probably wondering what is going on.  We began talking.  She thanked me and I realize this was an opportunity.  She kept touching my shoulders, tugging my tie, and I glared at Phil giving him the signal to start the game.

The formality of small talk makes anticipating questions and more importantly answers much easier.  I don’t like small talk in important conversations, but when crafting a well thought out lie small talk is essential. 

“Where are you from?” I asked moving closer.  

“I’m living in Ft. Myers. I go to Florida Gulf Coast,” she said.

“Really?  I’ve got some friends down there.  I like the town.  I heard the club scene is pretty good.”  

“Yeah, but I haven’t gone out much yet.  I’ve been rushing,” she said.  

“Oh yeah what sorority?”

“Tri-Delt.”

“That’s a good one,” I said.  I was looking at her now and she wasn’t a hardbody, but she wasn’t bad.  She was wearing a red mini dress, I think, and some very high heels.  She didn’t really seem like Tri-Delt material, but I imagine as far as sororities go FGCU is a 2A school.  

“Yeah I, like, really like it,” she said.  “So where do you go to school?”

“I don’t,” I said glancing at Phil to make sure he was in.  “I’m a lawyer.  I’m working in JP Morgan’s legal department,” I said without hesitation.  

She looked at me almost dumbfounded.  “Really?  You look young.”

“I’m the youngest one, I’m twenty-three.”

Then Phil chimed in to authenticate my story.  “He isn’t lying.  He really does work for JP Morgan.  This kid is the smartest guy I know.  How many years did it take you to graduate at Florida State?”

“Two and a half,” I said as if I wasn’t meaning to brag.   “It’s been a trip.  I came out because Phil told me the Sigmas were gonna be here tonight.  What are you doing in Tampa?”

“I came up to meet my friends,” she said, 

“You should introduce Phil to one of your friends,” I suggested trying to repay Phil’s favor.  There wasn’t enough time, however,  because maybe seven minutes after meeting this girl I had my tongue in her throat.  I was a beast.  

One day I’m sure karma will take me down.  If I ever actually love a girl I will probably lie about something, and then she will think she can’t trust me.   Honestly, doing what I do, I don’t see myself meeting the girl I could love anytime soon.  Hardbodies are hardbodies they come and go.  

I lie because I like the rush.  And in some dark bar, some deserted dance floor, some slow drone of bass trails off.  A black dress drenched in sweat and a necktie pulled loose hangs low from the collar.  Empty champagne bottles cover white tables with their sparkle.  Another beer, another shot, another hit, another line, another bar, another party, another club, another girl, another night, another week, another month, another year, another life.  In some dive I’ll be waiting, with my Ray Bans on.  Lurking.  Still lying.  

The Most Important Thing Ever Written Down: Choking the Bishop

I was brought up in a middle class family, with middle class friends, middle class problems, middle class lives.  Although I was Catholic, I went to a Baptist school for a long time, and was obviously heavily indoctrinated.  It wasn’t until my Confirmation, the final stage of acceptance into the Catholic Church, that I really started to question the purpose of organized religion.  

One of the requirements to be confirmed was to go to confession, a sacrament I detested and had consequently neglected for many years.  I always chose the oldest priest because I felt that he would either be too old to care about the petty sins of a minor or that he would die soon and wouldn’t hold anything against me.  That day it was Father Pat, the senile, but well meaning pastor.  An Irishman, he was a less than exciting addition to any sermon, and his deliveries were usually made with an overuse of the phrase, “But really and truly...”

The quiet church, lit only by red and brown stained glass, was not a sanctuary, but a torture chamber.  I knelt praying as I waited for my turn.  The pews had a distinct smell.  A slight hint of incense mixed with the sweat and stench of the thousands who had soaked into each cushion.  I hated the smell because it followed me every Sunday even after I was home.  Kids, some that I knew, walked in and out of the confession booth with apparent confidence—wearing their penance like a new suit.  I, however, was stricken with fear.  What were my sins?  What were my damn sins?  

Then the moment came.  I opened the door to a small dark room lit only by a single candle that illuminated the priest’s decrepit face.  I took a seat, trembling.  I quickly realized that this old man was not going to take pity on my young soul.  “Bless me father for I have sinned,” I said without hesitation.  How did I remember that?  It had been years since my last confession.

“What are your sins my son,” he replied in a solemn voice.  Then, as if guided by the Holy Spirit, I pieced together a string of sins that quickly spewed from my lips.  The typical line up for a fourteen-year-old boy.  “I’ve been mean to my little brother, disrespected my parents, made fun of others.”  I thought I had made it.  I mean I really thought it was over.  A relief passed over me.  All that was left were a few prayers, and then I’d never have to do this again, I thought. But it wasn’t over.  The priest had listened, but he wasn’t quite satisfied.   “Have you committed any mortal sins,” he asked.  I was dumbfounded.  I had no idea what mortal sins were, or if I had committed them.  Panic set in.  

I looked up at the old man.  I knew he could see the fear in my eyes, but he didn’t flinch.  He just sat there staunch in his dusty robes staring at me without a hint of compassion.  Silence.  I couldn’t ask him.  I didn’t want to look stupid.  The air stiff as if we were separated by needles all aimed at me.  I knew that I must have been told what the mortal sins were, but I hadn’t been paying attention.   Another sin.  

I finally asked him.  “What are mortal sins.”  I tried playing dumb, but he could see right through me.  The darkness of the small room seemed to make it expand, and now it was as if we were sitting in a giant dark expanse and the was no where to go, no escape.  

My only chance now was to find out what the sins were and confess, but the priest responded with an answer that made the situation infinitely worse.

“Blasphemy is a mortal sin.  As well as masturbation.  Have you done anything like that?” He asked.  

The color drained from my face.  If I wasn’t shaking before I sure as hell was then.  My face felt cold and gave way to a tingling fire, and I could not speak because the saliva in my mouth had been burned up.  

Masturbation?  I was only fourteen, but I knew what it was.  I loved to jerk off.  It had become somewhat of a pastime for me.  I knew I felt ashamed afterward because sex was always denied in my home.  Anything even remotely sexual was demonized.  I had no idea that masturbation was such a serious crime in the church.  I can remember choking-the-bishop multiple times a day back then.  In fact I probably had done it before coming to confession.  I was fourteen.  What fourteen year old boy didn’t beat off?  

I was speechless.  The question was like my mother asking me if I masturbated except worse because it was more like God asking me.  I had split seconds to answer.  If I took too long he would know I was lying, but I couldn’t lie to a priest, that would be an even more hell worthy misdeed.  I had to think quick.  If I said no I could leave with my dignity in tact, but God would surely spite me in return.  If I said yes I could leave, but I would never be able to look at Father Pat again.  I mean what kind of low life kid masturbates?  At that moment I was certain that I was the only one.  I did what I had to do.  I lied.  

“Say four Hail Mary’s and seven Our Fathers,” he said.  I walked out in disbelief.  The high number of prayers made me think that he knew, but I had nothing to compare it to.  As I knelt again on the sweat stained cushions and looked at the naked, emaciated Christ hanging above the altar, I was on the verge of tears.  I was not sad because of what I had done.  I was furious.  My head boiled, and I turned away from my friends who were leaving not wanting them to see me.  The church was hot, the church was old, it was not peaceful.

  For months I looked back on that day with dread.  God would never forgive me for this.  My confirmation went off without a hitch, but I could not consciously accept myself as a Catholic because I knew the truth.  I knew I had lied before God.

High school was a stew of ideas, cultures, identities.  Mr. Huey’s class taught me new ways to look at religion as I learned about Islam, Buddhism, etc.  Literature classes included books besides the Bible.  Compared to a Christian school, public high school was like looking at porn.  There were so many ideas that I had known about, but I had denied because I believed everything that had been preached to me.  I found myself questioning organized religion, and somewhere near the end, the ideas of Christianity, and finally God. 

I saw friends from my Christian school go in many direction when high school started.  I knew a pair of twins who became known in high school for carrying around their Bibles and preaching to any open ears.  If a girl was wearing a skirt they thought was too short you better believe she was gonna hear about it.  I saw other friends drop out of high school.  I knew a girl who had transferred twice in two years, finally dropped out, and got her GED.  She was very pretty in middle school, but when I saw her some years later she no longer had an aura of innocence as she did in middle school.  

One afternoon my junior year, I was at a park when I saw a buddy from middle school, stoned out of his mind in the parking lot.  I later learned that he did this everyday.  For the most part it seemed that the shock of freedom had caused two extremes.  The kids who became more devout in their beliefs, and the ones who rejected them.  

Ultimately that is what the church is about anyway.  People seem to have a desire to be a part of a group.  I’m sure that the kids involved in church talked shit about the kids that partied, and the kids that partied talked shit about the church kids.   But I just want to jerk off in peace.

The Most Important Thing Ever Written Down: Prologue

       There was a night in college when I took one, maybe two, maybe ten too many vodka shots, and woke up the next morning not remembering how I got back to my room or why I was covered in profanity and what one might consider to be the classical depiction of the male genitalia.  Believing that I had come close to death, I had a thought, just a fleeting one, to create a last testament of sorts.  I wanted to leave my mark on the world, an account of my numerous life endeavors and my few triumphs.  Just in case.  

No one really considers what their life might have to offer at this stage, but no teenage college student ever really considers death either.  The inherent ignorance and invincibility of youth, always living like there is no tomorrow, never considering that there might actually not be.  I, being very pretentious myself, thought that I had reached an epiphany of sorts.  By documenting my youth I was going to somehow be better than everyone else.  How typical.  

Crash

A half past a gypsy dance and a deck collapse we headed, drunk, to burger joint on Monroe in an old Jeep Grand Cherokee.  I had passed out about an hour ago and had to be dragged to the car.  I wasn’t hungry, but I really didn’t have a choice.  We pulled into the lot and noticed about six police cruisers parked.  Something about being drunk and in college makes everyone a little more ballsy so we go inside.  I stumble to the bathroom, and if I was stoned I would be paranoid right now.  Then I look in the mirror and find the word BALLS scrolled across my face.  Swastikas, penises, and smeared red ink covers my arms and legs.  Damn it, why didn’t they tell me about this before we walked in to a restaurant full of cops?  

It’s almost five in the morning when we get our food.  Someone orders me a burger, and the only thing I think is that I’m not going to be able to pay him back for it.  I have class in a few hours, but it is only as important as you make it.  There were three towny girls at this party making out with some hipster who probably road his fixie to the party, and now I am wondering if Maya is still awake.  I text her.  There is no response.  

I walk outside for a smoke.  The night is dragging on now, and for some reason everyone has ordered the entire menu.  I watch one of the police cars pull onto the empty street, only to be denied that certainty.  An eighteen wheeler plows into the drivers side, and the black and white is molded together in an instant.  Glass sprays to the pavement and the shimmer of street lights on wet pavement cascades down like a waterfall of sparks and crystals.  I exhale.  

~

At a truck stop in Valdosta I score some meth from a Mexican.  Its been four hours since Atlanta on two hours of sleep.  The gas came out above five-hundred again, cigarettes and a gram.  I smoke it in the back of the cab watching the smoke billow thick, then dissipates.  Breath in the crystal mix of rat poison and Draino, feel the pulse flow through my entire body.  

A half hour later I’m listening to something about an anal probing alien abduction, and imaging myself in the cockpit of a jetliner taking off from a never ending runway.  The reflectors stream together and disappear under the hood.  The CB crackles that there is an accident on I-10, and I decide to reroute around it.  Someone else crackles on about somewhere to find pussy in Perry.  I remember that I haven’t called my wife tonight.  Then I remember the papers.  

The truck rumbles down twenty-one fifteen minutes later.  I notice more cars on the road now, but I’m still flying.  The lights of the neon signs and street light flicker on the water droplets flung onto my windshield.  

I decide to light a cigarette and roll the window down an inch.  As I look down to flick the Zippo a slip of red and blue breaks the yellow and white reflections from my headlights.  I jolt forward, but don’t stop.  The sound of metal scrapping and glass shattering is muffled in my throbbing ears.  The next sensation is the cherry burning my thigh.  I piece things together enough to know I fucked up.  

~

I pull a car over doing fifty-five in a forty-five.  When I approach the car I notice two things.  One, the occupants of the vehicle are black.  Two, I can smell the distinct smell of marijuana.  One of our instructors had described it as “cat piss on a pine tree.”  I haven’t come up with a clever equivalent yet.  

“Do you know how fast you were going?” I ask. 

An obviously stoned face looks back at me, and responds,”Naw man, why don’t you tell me.”

“Could you step out of the car for me please.”  I radio in the code for backup.  “Look I can smell weed coming from this car, so I want you to be honest with me and tell me where it is.”

The guy looks down.  He looks nervous.  He looks fucked up.  “There’s nothin’ in the car man.”

“Don’t lie to me.  If you don’t tell me now, I’m just gonna get a dog out here, and he will definitely alert on this car,”  I say sternly.  “I can smell that shit on you.”

“Man, thats fucked up.”  My back up arrives, and we pat them both down.  

“I’m gonna give you one more chance to make this easier on yourself,” I lie, before we start searching the car anyway.

We find maybe a couple grams, cuff them both and take them to county.  The guy in the backs asks something about wether or not I am married.  

“It’s none of your business, but yeah.”  Then he goes into a rant about why I should go easy on him because he is married and has a kid or maybe it was two kids and he is going to lose his job, and I say that he should have thought about that before he went blunt cruising.  I cruise back downtown.  

The cell phone in the center console has been buzzing since two-thirty, but I’ll call back later.  The shift meets at five in the morning at a Whataburger.  Someone asks about my wife and that reminds me to call Sasha back.  I walk to my cruiser, and dial the phone.  She is drunk.  She is asking where I am, and I say that I’m on my way.  I spin the wheel, turning left.  Oh shit. 

~

I roll, and part my eyes to the streaming pink and purple bars of light coming through the glass.  His arm is still around my waist, and I kiss his lips.  The clock says nine thirty-five.  “Class starts in a half hour.  I have to get ready.”

He sighs and yawns, “Okay I’ll head out.”  As he leaves I hear him say goodbye to m roommate.  

The day moves slowly.  Lectures, lunch, someone calls, I head back to my apartment.  I hear about a party at some place I’ve never been, and decide to go with Kelly.  We get ready and head over.  It turns out to be a bunch of hipsters.  There is actually a band, and they are actually good.  I’m standing on the deck behind the house with about twenty other people when it collapses.  The whole thing happens so fast its hard to even take it in, but a coffee table slides into my knee, and I can almost feel something so I take another shot.  

Things move fast.  These gypsies show up, and I think they are trying to sell some painting so they can pay for the cross country trip, and I realize this party is getting really weird.   We go to another party and do some lines in the bathroom, and I have been calling him for hours now.  We make it back to the apartment somehow, and he finally calls me back.  I’m getting really excited to see him tonight, or maybe its just the coke.  Then the bastard hangs up on me and I can’t stay awake any longer.

~

Ringing.  Ringing.

“Hello.”

“Hey baby, I’m on my way over right now.”

“Mmm, okay I can’t wait till you get here.  I’m so horny.”

“Jesus, sober up a lil...”

Click.  Disconnect tone. 

Whiskey Rebellion

A man, he was in his forties I think, shot himself

Last night on a dark shoreline with a twenty-two.

There was a note

I didn’t read

Regarding his reason,

But it was very contrived.

The Police, who has been called, closed the beach.

The selfish prick had ruined the day.

A bottle of whiskey

Rested against

Aluminum and mesh

And gunpowder residue.

They cleaned the scene in essence,

But blood stained sand kernels are had to remove totally.

There was a hole 

Somewhere

And one in his head

And one in mine—

When I stole the whiskey.

The White Picket Fence

Suburban lawns concealing.

Manicured Augustine obscuring. 

There is a sound murmuring.

Underneath it.

Beetles and worms and nocturnal beings,

Lurking beneath its calm surface.

The image serves to conceal what we know to be true,

But cannot accept.

The uproar becomes louder.

The rose blossoms disturbed.

The paint begins to crack.

The window is shattered.

There is a white picket fence overgrown by vines.

And no one to cut them back.

At night you can’t find your way home.

This is the same place.

But it is very different.

The gregarious locust has returned.

It will not soon leave us, and now we are trapped.

Denial is our downfall.

High

       The night was anxious.  It was disturbed.  It was desired.  It has fallen.  It has created.  It has destroyed.  It knows me.  It can see into me.  I can feel it swelling, and I can feel it pulling me into its abyss.  It has us all.  It has my mind.  It has my weak heart.  I can count the minutes, of the day, until the night returns.  I can count the seconds too.  I know what it does.  I know why it wants me.  I know what it thinks.  I know I am crazy.  I am right.  

Narcissistic SOB

Hating myself and loving myself even more because of it.

A hardbodied co-ed who became my lover, who I refused to love,

And who, desiring me, gave up her secrets.

Because I could no longer feel, and because I couldn’t see,

Or hear, or know, or be anything.

And because I didn’t want to be one of those kids.

While thinking of other girls (another girl), and God,

And writing extended essays about Anna Karenina,

Hoping that would not be me.

Nursing narcissism, at times wanting to grab the screwdriver on my desk

And stab her in the neck—

And watch her bleed out as she catches her precious orgasm.

Then taking the bloody instrument,

I kill him with it too.

Because he hasn’t even noticed.

Red streaks across my naked body I jump from the fifth story window,

Land on the bike rack.

Crows will pick at my bones, 

And nobody will continue to ride their bikes.

Except for the hipsters,

Who will see their blood stained bikes as an ironic tragedy.

Poem Two

Have you ever seen the light glimmer off the whites of eyes on a moonlit night?

Paper Butterflies

Paper butterflies come between my eyes and the sun casting their see-through shadows on my face, and showing me the difference between dreams and reality.

Poem One

Blood thickens then thins to a heart beating steel drum droning talking and flowing only knowing that disaster will cast its spell on this night.